


An Aftermath

by mihlen



Category: Antizeroes / Lucid Project
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2020-01-01 00:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18324839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihlen/pseuds/mihlen
Summary: The Ataraxian authorities made it like Monsieur Douleur's death game never happened. One survivor, however, is left to deal with her own personal aftermath.





	An Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written under the assumption that the reader is familiar with the Lucid Project, the character Ilienna Vivaldi, and the events of the "Would You Rather" arc. If you are not, but still choose to read it anyway - I'm grateful for your interest, ahahaha. I'm not sure how much fun you'll have, but I should let you know that Ilienna is an alien, with leaves for hair, a hollow back that exposes the tree that makes up her 'skeleton,' and fruit for flesh. Thank you for your time.

Ilienna wakes up in transport. The dull flash of passing lights in the night. The thrum of a vehicle. Distant chatter. She’s been laid on her stomach, head turned gingerly to the side, dress unzipped. Something mists the inside of her back with a cool vapor. It’s invasive. It should be uncomfortable but, somehow, it isn’t. She can respire easier.

A blanket covers her from the waist down, soft against her legs. The air is clean. Nothing hurts, and she is safe.

She doesn’t quite feel alive.

A gasp. She digs her fingers into the thin cushion of the gurney, curls her toes, feels nothing on the right side. The sound of splinters in her mind. A moan. There’s hurried conversation behind her, but she’s too out of it to hear. Like the whir of a cooling fan. Like Claude Damas falling apart. Distant chatter, look away from the gore of the gun, look away from Douleur, look away from Lucien but she didn’t, she didn’t, she can see _every twitch_ of his body—no.

She can think later. She can hurt later. She can feel the pain, the guilt, the terror later.

But it was later now.

Everything hits her at once, the anguish tearing through her so violently that she’s sure it rips something coming up. There’s no way she isn’t carved open, isn’t spilling the pulp of herself out into her hands, pressed against her chest to stifle the sobs. Something detaches from her back, falls from her as she rolls over, choking on her own breath. Voices behind her. The tears won’t stop, she’s never cried like this before.

The medics put her under again.

* * *

 

Ilienna wakes up at the hospital. She jerks her arms at the restraints on her wrists, only to find that they aren’t restraints at all. A medical bracelet on her left wrist. A bandage on her right. She notes that her left pinky has grown back, the flesh tender and new. She should be happy about that. But her body doesn’t believe what she sees. The restraints are still there in her mind, where they matter most.

She sinks her head into her hands. The feeling of her palms against her eyes helps. She hadn’t been allowed that luxury at… there. She notes that her hair is dry. The leaves crackle as they fall against her shoulder.

Her mouth feels dry too. She tries to speak but pauses at the deep ache in her face, the click in her jaw. With one hand, she traces the bruises around her cheeks, her temples, dragging fingers through the pain. Then, slowly, she fits her hands over them. She summons an image of Douleur, snarling, his rage rattling through his hands into her head, a hairsbreadth from popping her skull like a grape.

 _“Do it._ ” The burn on her palm stings. That doesn’t make sense. It’s already been treated. It wasn't even that bad. “ _Or I will do it for you.”_

The nurse that checks in on her is surprised. How long has she been awake, they ask. When she says, “Not long,” she isn’t lying. But she is incorrect.

* * *

 

She wakes up at home. Laksha is whimpering. It was storming last night. Maybe the poor petalheart had a scare. Ilienna lifts her face from her dog’s neck to find the white fur stained with her tears. Dismay is damning, settling in her like a stone. Laksha, blinking four black eyes, whines and licks her face.

“No, no – down. The sugar’s not good for you,” Ilienna tries to say, but her voice is barely air, cracking down the middle. “Shit.” She scrubs the tears from her face with her sleeve until the skin feels raw. The bathroom sink is too far away. The stump of her right foot itches so badly.

Sighing, she leans back against her pillow, patting the mattress next to her. The whole bed dips as her big, beloved dog settles heavily, and Ilienna tries to smooth the sticky knots from Laksha’s fur, crooning soothing, meaningless noises. The rain is still pouring outside, beating against the window glass behind the curtains. She can’t tell what time it is.

Sleep does not come again. Eventually, she gives up. “Laksha, lights please,” she says, and Laksha barks understanding, bounds off. The lights come up gradually, and Ilienna sits up straighter. In the lowlight, she can see wisps of dog fur floating in the air around her. Her clothes cling to her skin, to the hollow of her back, suffocating her. She hasn’t vacuumed in days. She hasn’t done laundry for longer.

Frustration comes suddenly. Ilienna can’t stand the sensation, and she reaches back, tugging furiously at the buttons she’d done up to the top because she couldn’t _stand_ having her back _exposed_ again, to be that _vulnerable_ again where monsters like Douleur could _see_ and _remark_ , and it had been such a _nice dress_ that was now somewhere in the trash. Ilienna feels the tears brimming. Nope.

She pulls at the fabric so hard that the last button pops off, but Ilienna doesn’t care, hunching over, breathing heavily as if that will help her respire quicker, get rid of these toxic feelings faster.

Laksha bounds back in and barks happily, waiting for praise. Laksha, her flower, winterbud of her heart. Ilienna looks up, reaches out to pet her darling Big dog when Laksha barks again, all tongue and sharp teeth, made to tear flesh and _she watches the fibers snap, the black liquid spurting—_

She pounds both fists into her mattress, then grabs her pillow and throws it over her face, feeling tears dampen the fabric. She doesn’t know how she still has any tears left to cry. She hates this. She hates this, she hates this, she hates this – and she throws the pillow off the bed, sinking her face into her hands, running her fingers up through her hair, and she’s _not_ going to fucking cry again, she’s _not_ , she’s not.

Unlike Lucien Yeoun, unlike Valiant, she made it out alive.

A whine. Ilienna looks to Laksha, startled. Her heart breaks at her poor, Big dog cringing away from her. “No, no no, shh shh,” she says, and she gestures Laksha towards her, releasing a mollifying aroma. “Sweetheart, it wasn’t you,” she says, and once Laksha comes close enough, she rubs the loose skin of her dog’s face back and forth. “Who could be mad at you,” she says through comically pursed lips, kissing her dog on the nose.

Her voice sounds so cheerful. She doesn’t feel it at all. She feels like a parody of herself. She closes her eyes, and the exhaustion settles across her shoulders. She lies back down the wrong way, legs dangling off the side of her bed. Now her pillow is across the room too. Great.

Ilienna throws her arm over her eyes and stays that way, focusing on just breathing until she feels in control of herself again. “God, this is the worst,” she whispers.

And it really is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the earliest fics I wrote for the Lucid Project, and because I never planned on publishing it as a standalone fic, I didn't work in enough context, ahahaha. However, I don't think it's terrible for a one-shot.


End file.
